The Schizophrenic House Keeper
by High-Functioning Schizo
Summary: What do you do when you can't tell delusions from reality? Become a housekeeper apparently. SI No Romance.
1. Prologue: Delusion or Reality?

**The Schizophrenic Housekeeper**

 **Prologue: Delusion or Reality?**

I love Sherlock… but not in the way most people assume.

Often times the word love gets equated to romantic love in a context between two people who have no familial relationship with one another. Other times, it's used interchangeably in place for lust and desire for the more obsessive stalkerish types. If the hormonal Sherlock fans claiming Benedict Cumberbatch as the sexiest man alive is any indication.

Personally, I think the man looks average… well, maybe not average… more like… um… interesting? Interesting is a thing right? I'm probably not the best person to judge. The actor himself doesn't think so and I know people who thinks he's hideous like a troll.

Uh… where was I going with this?

 _Not romantic love._

Right! Um… I guess what I'm trying to say is that I love Sherlock, but not because I'm attracted to him. It's more like, I love him because he reminds me of myself.

 _In what way? I didn't know you were a genius detective with a penchant for being an ass to your family, friends and peers._

…

 _Am I wrong?_

… Sometimes I wish there was a way I could get rid of you.

 _Keep dreaming._

… If it's not obvious, I'm schizophrenic.

 _A high-functioning schizo according to your shrink. It's too bad you're not a sociopath, huh? Then you could have had that in common with Sherlock._

I have voices, like this one, harass me on a daily basis. Sometimes they're nice.

 _Do you even have anything in common with Sherlock?_

But most of the time, they're assholes.

 _D'aw… Just like Sherlock. I knew you love me!_

It took some time, but I eventually got used to them. Well… forced to get used to them, what with them being around since I was a teenager. At first, I thought it was probably my overactive imagination and I tried to ignore it, but as time passed, they grew obnoxiously louder and louder until I couldn't ignore them anymore. It made dealing with normal people… difficult.

 _So, you're a social guru now?_

I'm not audacious enough to claim I share a common point with Sherlock in genius. However, in social skills, I can confidently say we're about the same if not worse. Social cues goes over my head. What people have as a filter for inappropriateness doesn't exist with me… or at least not in the same way most would expect.

 _Well, you're not wrong there, but you forgot the heartless bit._

I wouldn't say I'm heartless.

 _You totally are!_

…But I have trouble understanding people and they get upset at me. When I say upset, they're _really_ upset. I mean… why should I care about office drama or who's sleeping with who? It's not part of my job, I'm not getting paid to care about that nonsense. Parties are another thing I don't understand. It's not like my presence makes a difference in the party. They could have fun with or without me, yet they get upset if I don't go. I just… don't get it.

 _What I don't get is where you're going with all this._ _Is there a point to all this?_

If you give me a minute, I could get to the point!

 _Hurry up!_

The thing is… as much as I love Sherlock, I never thought I would ever get to the point of hallucinating and deluding myself to thinking I was in that world. Don't get me wrong, I've had episodes in the past where I've seen and heard things that didn't exist, but even then, I could still tell they're not real, but this…

"Hi," sang a familiar looking man in a Westwood suit.

 _Oh shit, is that who I think it is?_

A sly grin graced his lips as his dark eyes glittered in excitement. At the corner of my eye, I could see several red laser pointer type lights on my person. Though, that wasn't as alarming compared to the heavy weighted vest with wires protruding out like messy Christmas lights. I definitely did not expect this.

"…Hello." I replied evenly, breathing a slow even breath out of my nose as I tried my best not to move.

"Don't be nervous," said the man playfully, as he clasped his hands together and slouched forward in his seat in front of me. "If you do exactly what I tell you to do, you will get out of this alive."

Well then… I'm fucked.

 _Totally._

* * *

Author's Notes: To clarify, I am a schizophrenic. This story is my way of destressing and coping with the endless bombardment of voices. This is done purely because I want to and because I enjoy sharing the countless worlds crowding my mind to whoever that's willing to experience it. If you don't like it, feel free to stop reading, but please be kind not to spread negativity as you do so. However, if you do stick around, I look forward to seeing you again in the next chapter! I intend to update as often as possible, until the story's completed.


	2. SHK01: Fight or Flight?

**The Schizophrenic Housekeeper**

 **Chapter One: Fight or Flight?**

Hallucinations and I are no strangers to one another. I lost count how many of them I had over the years. A couple even landed me in the hospital's psyche ward once or twice. I learned early on take what little clues around me to piece together what might actually be happening around me. It was dangerous to trust my senses.

Why I say this?

 _Because the last time you ended up attacking bystander and the time before that you ended up attack family and hospital staff._

I learned to hold my aggression since then.

 _Yeah, but it doesn't make that explosive covered vest feel any less threatening, does it?_

It's just a strait jacket and nothing more. With my history, I can't fault the hospital staff for being cautious.

 _How are you sure you're even in the hospital? You have snipers on you!_

More like tranquilizers, a precaution after what happened last time. As for how am I sure I'm in the hospital, the answer is simple. Hospitalization is no different from getting kidnapped and strapped to a bomb by the likes of a mastermind consulting criminal. I wouldn't be surprised if Moriarty turned out to be my attending psychiatrist. One word from them and my life is over in every sense of the word.

 _Now you're exaggerating._

Let me put it this way. If my psychiatrist deem me unstable to walk amongst the normies, I'll likely be locked up for an undetermined amount of time or until my insurance stops paying the costs of my hospitalization. In which case, I will end up with a debt $6000 per diem and I would have lost my job by then due to my long absence. With no economical means to survive or to pay this outrageous debt, I will likely end up in a _much_ worse situation compared to just hearing annoying voices like you in my head!

"Oh," drawled Moriarty with interest. "This is a first."

"What is?" I asked calmly as I did my best to block out the voices to hear his. It won't do if I seem too distracted.

"The last two people I had strapped to semtex blubbered like little babies. 'Oh! Please don't kill me! I don't want to die!' waa, waa, waa!" mocked the man with an exaggerated pout. "They're soooo typical. Not much fun to talk to at all!"

I kept quiet, not trusting myself to say anything incriminating while still under the hallucination. My ability to translate what I see into real-world equivalent is rather limited when it feels this realistic. It won't do if I respond with an answer that didn't match with the question.

"You on the other hand are not like them," continued Moriarty in a low conspiring whisper. "You don't beg or run."

 _Eh… it's more like your fight or flight response is broken._

Says the reason behind why it's broken.

 _Hey, don't blame me for your inability to tell hallucination from reality. I'm not stopping you from attacking or fleeing._

… I'm ignoring you.

 _You can try, but we both know you can't block me out._

"How feisty," grinned Moriarty, but it lasted only for a moment before his face went blank and his eyes turned dangerously cold and unamused.

The next thing I knew, one of the guards grabbed me by the hair and yanked my head back. I couldn't hold back the painful gasp of surprise as I came face to face with Moriarty towering over me with an awkward head tilt.

"No one's ever ignore me before," droned Moriarty.

Confusion crossed my mind as I tried to make sense of the pain on my scalp. This never happened before even when I got violent at the hospital. The worse the hospital staff did was pin me to the ground until they could either tranquilize me or put me in restraints, but… I'm already in restraints… aren't I?

 _Are you really sure we're in the hospital?_

…

"There we go," sang Moriarty with glee. A slow smile returned to his lips as he reached out and patted my cheek condescendingly. "That's the fear I'm looking for."

His hand was icy cold and absurdly soft, nothing like the hands of the hospital staff whose worn thin and dry from the endless handwashing and scrub downs nor like the calloused hands of the security staff.

 _Are you trying to pull a Sherlock?_

If only it helped, I scoffed inwardly as I glanced to Moriarty at a lost. Pain is one of the few things I cannot hallucinate. If I felt pain during a hallucination there usually is a real cause and reason for it. No hospital in their right mind would allow their patients to get manhandled in such a manner even in the psyche ward. It wasn't worth the lawsuit and bad publicity.

 _But if you're not in the hospital, then where are you?_

"You look a little lost, but that's okay," reassured Moriarty as he pocketed his hand casually and shifted his weight to his heels. "Like I said before you just have to do whatever I say and you'll be okay…Got it?"

"…What do you want me to do?" I asked cautiously, eying his reaction as I did so.

"We're going to play a little game," continued the man playfully with a skip in his step as he circled around me and the guard holding my hair. "You're going to make a phone call and I'm going to tell you what to say. Of course, if you stray from what I tell you to say or if you _cheat_ and let slip where you are to the other player, the game ends and… do you know what happens then?"

"…Boom?" I offered.

"Excellent! I'm glad we're on the same page," chirped Moriarty as he clapped his hands together.

The guard holding my hair, released his grip and I plopped back down to my chair with an uncomfortable oomph. I resisted the urge to scratch the stinging feeling from my scalp as another person came from behind and hooked what appeared to be a walkie-talkie ear piece to my left ear. Moriarty on the other hand pulled out a simple mobile and dropped it in my lap.

"I'll call you!" sang the man as he strolled out of the room with a lazy wave.

Several guards trailed after him protectively before the door slammed shut. I was left alone, but the red lights focused on various parts of my vest was still present, no doubt coming from whoever it was at the opposite building to the open window.

I'm still not entirely convinced this wasn't just an elaborate hallucination. Either the National Psychological Association came up with a new method of treating mentally unsound or I've somehow fallen victim to a kidnapping scheme and they're holding me ransom for money.

 _Why would they? Your family's not rich and even if they were, it makes no sense for them to waste money on you. You're broken and a hindrance after all._

I went back to ignoring the voice as I eyed the phone in my lap. The device vibrated soundly as a text popped up with a ten digits, spaced much like a phone number. Strange, I've never been able to read while in… oh…

 _Still think you're hallucinating?_

"Call the number and put it on speaker," said Moriarty through the earpiece.

Uncertain about my sanity anymore, I did as I was told and dialed the number. It rang several times before the call was picked up and a familiar baritone came through.

"Hello?" answered who I can only assume is Sherlock.

"Repeat after me," ordered Moriarty with a gleeful giggle. "This one is a bit defective."

I flinched as I recognized the line. It was from the great game with the blind old woman. I'm… in the Great Game?

"Come on, repeat what I said," demanded Moriarty.

"Sorry." I muttered as I parroted Moriarty's words. "This one is a bit defective."

"She's not quite right in her head," continued Moriarty.

As I repeated his words, I wondered what happened to the old woman I took the place of. Did Moriarty kill her off? It is in his character to change victims on a whim. I wouldn't be surprised if he did kill her. Sherlock remained surprisingly silent on his side of the line.

"This is a funny one," giggled Moriarty at what was probably an inside joke. "I'll give you 12 hours."

"Why are you doing this?" asked Sherlock, his voice calm and devoid of emotions.

If I was in better circumstances, I might actually have fangirled. Aside from the fact it's Sherlock talking, his voice was pleasant to listen to compared to those that regularly plagued me.

 _Are you saying my voice grates on your nerves?_

Among other things.

 _I resent that!_

"I like to watch you dance," replied Moriarty with a pep to his voice his laughter bellowed in my ear.

 _Oi, I'm talking to you!_

Doing my best to block out the voice's endless chatter, I'm not sure if I managed to keep the sharp intake of breath from hissing against my teeth as I repeated Moriarty's words. It was a pity that Sherlock stopped talking, I could have used his voice to block out theirs. The phone gave an audible click a moment later, signaling the end of the call.

"How rude, he didn't even say goodbye," sighed Moriarty in disappointment before he perked up once more in a sing-song. "Well then, let's check back with him in a couple hours. Talk to you later, ta!"

 _Ta? Who actually says ta as a goodbye?_

Moriarty apparently.

 _Also…Did he say 12 hours?_

Unfortunately.

 _We're going to be stuck here for 12 hours? What kind of torture is this? What about lunch? Or bathroom breaks?_

You're not helping.

 _Why are you not worried? You haven't eaten in ages and when was the last time you even peed? If you're going to have to sit here for 12 hours, you're totally going to piss yourself._

… Screw this. I'm taking a nap.

 _What? Now? What kind of hostage are you? Not to mention, you're going to get a crick in your neck if you sleep while sitting up!_

Better than listening to you for 12 hours.

 _Hey! I'm a great conversationalist!_

Ta!

 _Ta is not an appropriate goodbye!_

…

 _Closing your eyes doesn't mean you're asleep! I know you're awake!_

…

 _Stop ignoring me!_

…


	3. SHK02: Useless Sentiments

**The Schizophrenic Housekeeper**

 **Chapter Two: Useless Sentiments**

"Sorry, this one is a bit defective," murmured the lackluster voice of bomber's newest puppet.

 _Voice: Clear, young female, non-smoker_

 _Age: Between mid-twenties to early thirties_

 _Accent: American_

 _Mental State: …Calm? No—detached_

Sherlock's brows furrowed as his mind picked apart the details of the latest victim in quick succession. As he suspected, the bomber is showing off the extent of his power and reach. Stationary from the Czech Republic, puppets from London, Cornwell and now an American. He was working his way around the world! These people were unrelated, nothing connected them.

"She's not quite right in the head," parroted the young woman, her voice aloof and distracted.

 _Why aloof and distracted?_

 _Drugged?_

 _Not drugged, bomber said she's not right in the head._

 _Mentally unsound._

"This is a funny one." The woman continued to relay the bomber's messages, but she sounded lost in thought as if she was far, far away. "I'll give you 12 hours."

 _Unpredictable._

 _Possible liability._

"Why are you doing this?" demanded Sherlock calmly as he egged the bomber to share and reveal more of himself.

What he got instead is a sharp hiss from the woman sucking in a breath through her teeth. Sherlock's frown deepen at the noise. It sounded like pain, but it is too quick and short for it to be anything lasting.

"I like… to watch you… dance…" She managed to force out before taking in another sharp breath.

 _Not pain._

 _Anxiety._

 _She's going into a panic attack._

At the realization, his blue eyes widened and he quickly ended the call before anything else could be said. It was one thing for the victims to be blubbering while they relayed the bomber's words and another if they started blabbering anything and everything. The game only continued if the rules were abided by. If they were broken…

"Sherlock?" called out John.

 _Caring._

 _Patient._

 _Kind._

 **Useless sentiments.**

The thought made him pause, unable to meet John's eyes as he dropped the pink phone on the diner's table. The TV still blared with the broadcast of Connie Prince's death. Another death, another mystery and the game continues.

One call to Lestrade and a trip to the morgue later, Sherlock managed to solve the cause of death for Connie Prince within minutes after seeing the body. However, that didn't bring him any closer to finding the bomber. He needed more time.

"How long do you think the bacteria had been incubating inside her?" He phrased the question in a manner John could come to his own conclusion before the dear army doctor went off on a wild goose chase.

 _Naïve._

 _Simple._

 _Trusting._

 **Idiot.**

Sherlock frowned at the thought. Everyone is usually classified as an idiot in his mind, but somehow it didn't feel right for John. Why is that? Never mind the thought, he had more important matters to deal with. Such as…

"Why are they doing this?" frowned Lestrade as he stared down at Connie's corpse. "If the death is suspicious, why point it out?"

"Good Samaritan?" supplied Sherlock offhandedly as he tried to make his way out of the morgue.

"Who press-ganged suicide bombers?" challenged the detective inspector.

"Bad Samaritan," corrected Sherlock flippantly as he kept only half his attention on Lestrade and his questions.

They eventually made their way back to 221B, where Sherlock frantically tried to make a connection between the bomber and all his victims, even though he already concluded there was no real connection. The victims were chosen at the whim of the bomber. The bomber was taunting him.

"What am I missing?" snarled Sherlock in frustration as he paced 221B with his hands ruffling through his hair in frustration.

 _Ring!_

Sherlock barely glanced at the blocked number on the screen before answering it on speaker phone.

"You're enjoying this aren't you?" started the young woman again, her voice slow and raspy before a loud yawn came through the phone. "Joining the dots?"

Lestrade and Sherlock paused and shared a look at the sound. Her voice is tired and heavy with sleep. Had their victim been… napping? What kind of person naps while kidnapped?

"Three hours…" continued the woman with a whisper before her voice faded with the words. "Boom... boom…zzz…"

The phone clattered and hissed as though it is dropped and slid some distance away. Something hit the ground soundly a moment later followed by a faint groan and a muffled curse. When no other sound followed, Sherlock ended the call and pocketed the phone.

"…Sherlock—"

"She's not the bomber," cut off the blue-eyed detective with an annoyed huff.

"How are you so sure?" frowned Lestrade. "It could be a ruse and she's just making herself seem like a victim to take suspicion off her. Who in their right mind would act like that while in a hostage situation?"

"But she's not in her right mind, is she?" noted Sherlock with a thoughtful drone, his hands steeple in front of his face.

"What?" asked Lestrade in confusion. "What do you mean?"

 _Ring!_

Lestrade's question ignored, Sherlock reached into his pocket and pulled out his other phone. John's name flashed on the caller-id. The call came sooner than he expected. The dear doctor took no time at all to come to the wrong conclusion.

"John," greeted Sherlock.

"Sherlock, I think I'm onto something, you're going to need to get these things for your disguise," started John as he started to list a number of photography equipment and accessories. "Do you need to write anything down?"

"No, I'll remember it," answered Sherlock as he turned his heel and made his way out of 221B to gather said items.

In the eight hours he used, he learned plenty about their bomber, but nothing of significance to be actual use. The criminal class always had a taste for the dramatics. The innate need to show off and gain recognition usually brought about the downfall of the lesser criminals. This one is no different, but there is something about him that's… fascinating.

Even so, it still isn't enough to draw his attention away from the giddy army doctor who practically skipped out of the Prince household. Sherlock couldn't fight off the grin tugging at his lips. John could be so adorable when he thinks he managed to deduce something. Of course, the man is completely wrong as per norm, but as some may say, it's the thought that counts.

"It's not the cat," grinned Sherlock as he took pleasure in correcting his flatmate's misconception.

The confused and frustrated puppy-like expression on John's face made it almost worthwhile to endure through the man's admonishment… Well, almost.

"How long have you known?" interrupted John shortly after Sherlock relayed the findings to the detective inspector.

"Since the beginning. Like I said, the bomber repeated himself," dismissed Sherlock as he attempted to trail after Lestrade, but John caught him by the arm.

"Sherlock! The hostage! She's been there all this time!" snapped John, face stoic and eyes livid with simmering anger.

"Yes, I know I can save her. I know the bomber gave us 12 hours," reasoned Sherlock. "I solve the case quickly and get on with other things! Don't you see? I one up on him!"

John couldn't see it, disapproval is clear on his face as Sherlock circle round him and jogged into Lestrade's office. He will have to deal with the army doctor's admonishment later. Getting back from the Prince household took longer than he expected. Less than ten minutes left on the clock and he needed to get onto his website and post the answer for the bomber.

 **Raoul de Santos, the house-boy, botox.** He typed into the forum on his website The Science of Deduction. The response is almost immediate as he felt a vibration in his pocket.

 _Ring!_

"Hello?" answered Sherlock with calm ease.

"…C-can you come get me?" asked the woman with a shaking breath and chattering teeth. "It's r-really cold."

"Where are you?" frowned Sherlock.

"D-don't know," answered the woman. "He said I could send you a map."

At a blimp, Sherlock pulled the phone from his ear and glanced down to the text message and screenshot of a map with a star marked off on a building in the middle of London.

"Send someone to get her," said Sherlock as he handed the phone to Lestrade who took a glance at the map and started shouting off orders to the standby teams.

With the destination set, a flurry of activity took over Scotland Yard as everyone filed out with purpose. Lestrade spared only a moment to reassure the woman on the other side of the line, taking whatever information he could before ending the call. Sherlock waited only for as long as it took for Lestrade to finish before he retrieved the phone and made his way back to Baker Street. There is no need for them to follow Scotland Yard to the scene. The woman is just another victim, unlikely she has any useful information he could use.

"How disappointing," huffed Sherlock as he flipped the phone in his hand before he pocketed.

"What is?" asked John with a frown.

"I expected a bit more of a challenge, but the bomber had and go and repeat himself," groaned Sherlock in exasperation. "Dull!"

"Dull?" repeated John in disbelief. "There are lives at stake Sherlock!"

"And?" droned Sherlock in boredom.

"Actual human lives!" snapped John before he took a step back to reign in his temper. "Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"

"Will caring about them help save them?" retorted Sherlock dryly as he watched a multitude of emotions explode from the blond army doctor.

John is angry, why? Everything Sherlock's done up to this point is the matter of efficiency. Knowing more about the victims didn't help with the cause. Then why…

"I've disappointed you," concluded Sherlock quietly.

"That's good," scoffed John with a disbelieving shake of his head. "That's a good deduction."

"Don't make people into heroes, John. Heroes don't exist and if they did, I wouldn't be—"

 _Blimp!_

At the sound, both Sherlock and John froze. Their gaze turned to Sherlock's pocket where the phone resided. The bomber can't possibly start the next game already. Hastily, the curly-haired detective pulled out the phone and pressed the home button to wake the screen. What he sees next is an unexpected surprise.

"What's the matter? Did the bomber already send the next one?" asked John with concern.

"…No," droned Sherlock with intrigue. "It's from the victim."

"The victim?" said John in surprise. "What did she say?"

"You might get along with her," hummed Sherlock thoughtfully as he handed him the phone.

"What?" frowned John as he took the offered device, but the furrowed brows quickly turned to raised surprise when he read the actual text.

 **Caring is not an advantage. Kindness is not a weakness. Stop thinking so loud!**

"How—?" started John before the phone was snatched out of his hand and promptly pocketed away.

"Why don't we ask her in person?" suggested Sherlock as he billowed past John like a wraith. "Come along John!"

"Sherlock!" shouted the man in exasperation as he scurried after his taller flatmate.


	4. SH03: Noise

**The Schizophrenic Housekeeper**

 **Chapter Three: Noise**

 _Why did you have and go piss Moriarty off again?_

I didn't piss him off.

 _You fell_ _ **asleep**_ _in the middle of talking to Sherlock!_

Sue me for having low blood pressure. Waking up takes a bit more effort for me compared to normal people. Why else would I have three alarms setup with ten minute intervals between them?

 _If you didn't take a nap, then we wouldn't be in this predicament!_

Well, yelling at me won't make the room feel any warmer now, will it?

 _..._

That's what I thought.

Not sure how long it's been since the window's been open, but it's awfully cold. As the voice pointed out, Moriarty was not happy with me falling asleep before I finished relaying his message. I hope to god that text was enough to lure Sherlock here because knowing him, he would leave it to Scotland Yard to find me.

Nothing against Lestrade or his team, I'm sure they're capable people, but I'm quite done with this whole hostage situation. I just want a hot shower and a warm bed. Luring Sherlock here will expedite the search.

Teeth chattering, I could see my breath turning to a cloud of white mist as it escaped my lips. It was summer when I last checked. So, unless I'm in a restaurant grade freezer room, I'm about eighty percent certain this isn't a hallucination.

 _Why eighty? What about the last twenty?_

Insurance for my sanity if I happen to be wrong and this really is a hallucination. I'm trying to cling onto whatever remaining vestige of my sanity since no one in their right mind would accept the fact they're in a fictional universe that easily.

 _Fair enough. How cold would you say it has to be for you to be able to see your own breath?_

Under fifty degrees, I'm guessing.

 _And how long do you think it takes to freeze to death with what you're wearing?_

…You never have anything nice to say do you?

 **BANG! BANG! BOOM!**

The frame cracked and the door flew open to reveal a small group dressed in what I assumed were bomb defusing suits. I like to say a wave of relief hit me when they made their way to me and started offering reassuring words. Except relief is probably the worst thing to think about while people are trying to defuse and remove a bomb from your person.

 _How's the bladder?_

Shut up.

After what seemed like an eternity, the bomb was finally off. The explosives were packed away in a sturdy case and I was dragged to my feet by the nice EMT staff. The only thing left to deal with is my annoyingly full bladder.

"Can you walk?" asked one of the men.

"N-not without wetting myself." I gritted out through chattering teeth. "Is there a bathroom? I really need to pee and I don't think I can make it very far without wetting myself."

"Um… yes, but the police wants to—"

"I don't have a change of clothes and I really don't want to wet myself. So… please." I begged with a strained whisper.

Five minutes and a thankfully empty bladder later, I was ushered down to an ambulance. Under normal circumstances, the sight of the vehicle was more than enough to drive terror into my heart and panic into my mind. However, this ambulance was yellow and checkered, nothing like the white and striped prison boxes, I've grown so accustom to sitting in. It could also possibly be because they gave me a cup of hot coffee and an orange blanket.

 _What's so special about the orange blanket?_

It's not just any orange blanket. It's the orange Shock Blanket.

 _Wow, I can hear the capitalizations, you nerd. I bet if you weren't tired and frozen, you'd be hopping like the little fangirl you are._

"For someone claiming I'm thinking too loud, your thoughts aren't that much quieter," commented a rich baritone.

Any retort I had was disrupted as the bottom hem of a familiar coat came into my line of sight. It took a moment for me to register who it was as I blinked away the dryness in my eyes. An unfortunate and annoying downside to forgetting to blink when I'm lost in thought or busy arguing with the voice in my head. Though, I probably should pay attention instead of getting lost in my thoughts again if the one-sided chiding was any indication.

"Sherlock, have some tact," hissed the blond man who I immediately recognized as John. "After what she's been through, can't you be a little more considerate?"

"Why?" asked Sherlock bluntly as he glanced down at his flatmate. "She's not bothered by it."

"What do you mean she's not bother? Of course she's bothered!" argued John heatedly as he waved his hand and glanced towards me. "Can't you see she's… grinning?"

Am I? I blinked in surprise as I pulled a hand away from my hot drink and raised the tips of my fingers to the corner of my lips. True to John's words, I felt a wide grin against my cold cheeks.

"Huh, I guess I am." I murmured thoughtfully before I returned my hand to the warmth of my cup.

"…You're not bothered… at all?" asked John in confusion.

"Obviously not," scoffed Sherlock as he cut into the conversation. "For someone who can fall asleep so easily while being held hostage she either have no understanding of the severity of her situation or she's been desensitized to such things.

Judging by the smile on her face at your concern over the lack of trauma, I assume the latter. If she had no understanding, her reaction to you would be of confusion rather than amusement. It's quite possible, she's repressing as a means to cope with what happened, but the text she sent earlier hinted otherwise.

She sees caring as a flaw, but not in a negative manner. In fact, your concern is appreciated even if she finds it unnecessary, which was why she smiled despite my _lack of tact_. Conclusion, she's used to being physically and mentally manhandled and dismissed without much care; therefore, not bothered. Honestly John, she made it quite obvious."

"…Sherlock," interrupted Lestrade with an exasperated sigh. "I'm making an allowance here for you to talk to her first—"

"Then let me talk," countered Sherlock snippily.

At Sherlock's rapid-fire deductions and dismissive insults, I found it near impossible to keep myself from laughing in delight. It was like riding through a high-speed rollercoaster with countless sudden twist and turns with endless loop-de-loops.

 _You sound like a fangirl._

I am a fangirl.

 _True, but that's not going to get you incorporated into Sherlock's life._

What makes you think I want to get involved?

 _Come on! This is every fangirl's dream come true! Don't tell me you're not even a little bit tempted._

Even if I am, what makes you think I could interest Sherlock enough to be included in his life?

 _Do I really need to teach you? You've read a ton of fanfics. I'm sure at least one of them could work._

Example?

 _Spoil the story by giving juicy insider detail of Moriarty!_

And watch everything crumble into unpredictability? Pass!

 _Be uncreative and parrot every line he or someone else says in the coming episodes before they actually say it to pretend you're as much of a genius as the Holmes brothers!_

Unlike those two, I don't have intellect or knowhow to get myself out of trouble on the off chance I piss off the wrong person by being a deductive asshole.

 _Touché, what about—_

"If you're quite done arguing with the voices in your head," Sherlock's interruption tore me from my thoughts as I looked up at him in alarm, but before I could voice out anything he went off on another one of the deduction spree. "Don't look so surprised, your eyes practically gave it away."

"What do you mean?" asked John in confusion.

"She's schizophrenic, albeit a functioning one," noted Sherlock offhandedly. "I suspected you had some sort of psychological disorder."

"Wait, wait! How can you tell she's—" Lestrade hesitated for a second. He was either uncomfortable with the notion or sensitivity training kicked in and he's afraid he might offend me by saying something wrong.

"Her eyes," sighed Sherlock with a roll of his eyes as though they were idiots, knowing him it's likely not far off. "Personally, I find the phrase: eyes are the windows to one's soul as overly romanticized drivel, but there is some truth to it if you take micro expressions into consideration. Compared to the other features on the face, eyes are far more expressive and the subtle changes are easier to pick up."

I counted four distinct changes in the last minute and none of them correlated to what was being said. In fact, she likely doesn't pay attention to most conversations on a daily basis. Rather difficult when there are voices constantly vying for her attention on top of everything else. Isn't that right?"

While I'm no stranger to fast talkers, it took a moment for my brain to process Sherlock's rambling stream of consciousness style of deduction. Beyond what Moriarty had me parrot, I haven't spoken more than five words in the detective's presence. Yet, he managed deduce my condition through the subtle fluctuations from my eyes. To say it's jarring would be an understatement. By the time I gathered my thoughts, the curly-haired detective had moved on and left me with a dumbfounded expression in his haste.

"Of course it is," dismissed the detective offhandedly. His brows furrowed in concentration, no doubt tearing apart every little detail on my person with those sharp piercing blue eyes of his. "With your docile demeanor, obedient disposition and your inability to stay focused, you're the perfect puppet to plant information on you, but difficult and time consuming to draw information out. Well, difficult for the average idiot."

 _What exactly is it about him that you and the rest of the fandom find sexy?_

When did I ever call him sexy?

 _You said you love him._

Love does not equate to sexy!

 _But you're not denying you love him._

Not that type of love! You know—

 **SNAP, SNAP**

"You can go back to arguing with the voices in your head on your own time," interrupted Sherlock as he snapped his fingers in front of my face.

 _What is love? Baby don't hurt me!_

"Focus," cut in Sherlock once more.

 _Don't hurt me! No more!_

What followed was a fluctuation of voices with Sherlock's cutting in and out between the nonsensical rambling and song-singing. A loud annoyance for sure, but one I've learned to work around… if only Sherlock would talk at the speed of a normal person! I could usually get by with my mediocre lip-reading skills, but when it comes to London's only consultant detective, mediocrity is not enough. All I could get out of Sherlock was a whole lot of lip-flapping.

"Stop talking so fast!" I snapped out of frustration, much to the detective's surprise.

Fortunately, John seemed to have picked up what I was trying to do and cut-in. The doctor spoke slowly with exaggerated lip movements.

"Is this speed better?" asked John with a saint's patience.

"Yes, thank you," I sighed in relief. I could kiss him for his level of consideration. "What would you like to know?"


	5. SH04: What's Important?

**The Schizophrenic Housekeeper**

 **Chapter Four: What's Important?**

"Stop talking so fast!" snapped the young woman.

 _Not as unbothered and docile as original conclusion._

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and swept over the woman once more for any missed details. His initial deduction on her was not wrong.

 _Passive-aggressive text_

 _Speaks only when spoken to_

 _Aloof even under duress_

 _ **Conditioned docility**_

All the other victims in her position broke down long before the first call even started. She on the other hand remained calm and reserved even after the ordeal was done and over. Not only that, she didn't once get angry at Sherlock despite how most people, John included, would get angry at him for one thing or another.

 _Forgiving?_

 _No, acclimatized_

 _Then why the lash-out?_

John slipped in between him and the young woman before the detective could speak.

"Is this speed better?" asked John slowly.

"Yes, thank you," sighed the woman in relief before offering. "What would you like to know?"

 _Not angry…but frustrated._

Sherlock's pinched brows relaxed as realization set in and everything clicked into place. The young woman was actively making an effort to work around the voices in her head. Judging by John's exaggerated lip movements, it seems she's abandoned auditory cues to their conversation and went for the visual instead.

"Everything," interrupted Sherlock once more, this time with more distinct lip movements.

"Everything?" repeated the young woman curiously.

"From the beginning and don't be boring," supplemented Sherlock before a thoughtful expression the other's face.

"I guess it started when my parents became refugees after the Vietnam War," muttered the woman, her knuckles curled against her chin as she frowned in thought. "Even though their families lived there for three generations, the locals were a bit sensitive and… well, they had to get out."

Expectedly, the part where they had help was left unspoken. Sherlock frowned as he studied her. It's quite possible she was chosen because of her parents' past history with the bomber. From what he's seen so far, it does seem like the bomber's mode of operation to do something like this. However, something about this didn't seem right.

"What happened?" asked John.

"Things," shrugged the woman. "My parents eventually made their way to America. One thing lead to another and..."

It was then, Sherlock noticed the faint hints of color hidden beneath what he initially assumed was dark hair.

 _Professionally dyed and styled, but several months old by the level of fade_

 _Self-indulging, but more importantly…_

 _ **Bold**_

"Boredom set in and yours truly was conceived and had a fairly boring and normal childhood. Well, save for the bit with the hospitals and the schizophrenia, but aside from that, it's pretty uneventful," said the woman dismissively.

The group fell silent as her words sunk in. A collective look of annoyance crossed their faces when they realized they've been had. Sherlock scowled, he should've noticed the contradictions on her person earlier. While the woman may be conditioned for docility, she was not in the least the submissive sort.

Annoyed, Sherlock glared at the shorter woman. Details of her faults and habits appeared around her person like Christmas lights. With ammo at the ready, the irritated detective was about to unleash a slew of insults at her. Except, he never got the chance.

"Then I got kidnapped… by this weirdo," frowned the woman. "He's about average height, dark hair, high forehead, dark round eyes, Caucasian, tenor voice, but likes to drawl and talk as if he's clenching the back of his teeth. Clean shaven, likes expensive suits, has somewhat of a god complex."

"That's… a very detailed description," noted John, his brows furrowed in confusion as he tilted his head inquisitively. "Why didn't you just start with that?"

"He said don't be boring," offered the woman with an unapologetic shrug.

"Wonderful, you know how to follow directions," scoffed Sherlock dryly as he filed away her description. He's got the information he wanted. It's unlikely the bomber would tell her much else. "Lestrade, get an artist to do a face composite with her. Let me know if anything turns up after running it through the facial recognition."

"What? That's it?" asked Lestrade in disbelief. "You're not going to ask her where she's from or how she was taken?"

"East coast, a New Yorker from the sound of her accent. Likely a tourist on vaca—" started Sherlock, but paused in midsentence when he caught glimpse of the clothes underneath the blanket. In two steps, he grasped onto the blanket and ripped it open for a better look.

"Hey!" protested the woman as she tried to draw the shock blanket close to ward off the chill.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" grounded out John as he pulled the taller man back.

His words were blatantly ignored as Sherlock's eyes swept over the woman's clothing before she hastily drew the blanket shut again. More so to keep in the warmth rather than alarmed he did it in the first place.

 _ **Clothing:**_ _non-brands or of the durable variety_

 _Money-conscious_

 _Likely low-income upbringing_

 _ **Not important**_

 _What's important?_

 _Something about her body?_

 _ **Physical attributes:**_ _Short, curvy, heavier set_

 _Slight muscle definition_

 _Does bare minimum to stay healthy_

 _ **Also, not important**_

 _What is important then?_

 _Her clothes_

 _ **Fabric:**_ _Light_ _s_ _olid-colors, thin, summer-appropriate_

 _…Summer?_

Sherlock frowned, it made no sense. Why would she be wearing summer clothing? It's winter. Not only that, her clothes weren't even the gym variety. Wherever the bomber snatched her from had a much warmer climate.

"Where were you when you were taken?" demanded the detective without reserve.

"Um… walking home from work?" answered the woman in confusion.

"In that?" said John in disbelief. "It's ten degrees!"

"…Quite sure it's not ten degrees," frowned the woman as she eyed their clothes.

"Celsius," supplied Sherlock.

"…Yeah, I don't know how to convert that to Fahrenheit," replied the short woman with another shrug. "Not sure how I even got here, but is it normally this cold? People haven't even pulled out their fall jackets yet back home yet."

"…It's March," said John slowly.

His words took a moment to sink in before a flash of panic crossed her face. It lasted for barely a second, disappearing almost as quickly as it came. Most people would have passed it for a trick in the light. Never noticing the near seamless transition between panic and aloofness. However, Sherlock was not most people.

"Time loss," noted Sherlock with narrowed eyes.

The former hostage did her best not to react, but it was too late. He knew that look from personal experience. While Sherlock was not one prone to hallucinations, he's had his fair share of hallucinogenic drug highs to recognize the anxiety caused by time loss. He, himself had lost a grand total of three weeks prior to his last overdose. Mycroft was absolutely insufferable about the time loss when he sent him through rehab.

"You're no stranger to it, it's a common side-effect for those who suffer from hallucinations," continued Sherlock smoothly. "Except, you've never lost this much time. Nearly six months' worth?"

"…And?" continued the woman after a moment of silence. "What about it?"

"Six months is a long time," noted Sherlock, his eyes lit up with delight as he tried to figure out the puzzle behind the bomber's latest victim. "People would notice you're gone and start searching. Yet, the bomber managed to not only keep you, but also kept you from realizing any time's passed… Interesting."

"Interesting?" repeated John in disbelief. "How is this interesting? If she's really been missing for half a year, her family must be worried sick!"

"She's been gone six months, what's a couple of hours more?" dismissed Sherlock. "You're not seeing the point here John. Our bomber is resourceful. He's telling us he could grab anyone from anywhere and hold them for however long he wishes. And this is without the person realizing they've been gone for as long as she has. Do you know what this means?"

"That you're fucked six ways to Sunday?" suggested the short woman offhandedly. All eyes turned to her at her comment. "What? Everyone's thinking it."

"Are they now?" drawled Sherlock as he rolled his eyes out of annoyance. "Dull."

"Yeah… I'm sure you're having a ton of fun with this, but it's really fucking cold," grounded the woman. "If you can get to the god damn point and let the nice detective inspector can get me processed and possibly send me somewhere that has a hot shower, that'd be nice."

An indignant scowl crossed Sherlock's face as John and Lestrade bit back a snort of laughter. While it was not the first time someone told dark-haired detective off for his deductive ways, it was certainly the first time someone called his deductions slow.

"Lestrade, she's yours. I'm done," said Sherlock haughtily as he turned to leave.

"What? Really?" said the detective inspector in surprise. "But you haven't even—"

"I got what's important," dismissed Sherlock as he walked off, coat billowing behind him as he went.

"Don't mind him, he's just upset," whispered John loudly, mirth clear in his voice.

"Come along John!" shouted Sherlock.

Regardless of John's claim. He was not upset. It's obvious the bomber chose this victim to rile him up with her deceptive story-telling. She wasn't important, at least not to figuring out the bomber's true identity and motive. Nevertheless, he's wasted enough time on her. He needs to prepare himself before the next game starts.


	6. SH05: Big Brother

**The Schizophrenic Housekeeper**

 **Chapter Five: Big Brother**

 _He left! WHY DID HE LEAVE?_

Well, he did say he was done.

 _Done? How can he be done? He was supposed to ask you to stay!_

What reason does he have to do that?

 _You were supposed to provide the reason dipshit!_

Was I?

The voice continued screaming in an angry ramble. I did my best to block it out while trying to answer Lestrade's questions in between bites of take out. The man was kind enough to order food while he interrogated me.

 _It probably tastes like shit._

Not when you're hungry.

"I guess that covers everything Sherlock said," muttered Lestrade as he clicked the recorder off with a sigh.

"What happens to me now?" I asked as I shuffled the remaining pieces of rice in the box with my plastic spoon.

"The next step is to get you home, but since you're not a U.K citizen, your case will be passed to the U.S Embassy and they'll handle your return," explained Lestrade.

"Makes sense." I noted as I cleaned out the box with my spoon and took the last bite. "So… where will I be staying until then?"

"Once they confirm you're one of their citizens, they'll handling everything. Someone will probably come by to pick you up in a couple of hours once your information checks out with them," assured Lestrade.

 _If it checks out._

…What do you mean?

 _Hello Dorothy, you're not exactly in Kansas anymore!_ _For all you know, you and your family don't exist here. You don't have any paper work proving you're a citizen to any country. What do you think will happen then? Where will they deport you to?_

"Lestrade?" interrupted Donovan's voice as she entered the room without a knock.

"Did the embassy get back to us already?" said the man in surprise.

"About that…" started Donovan as she glanced to me with wary eyes. "They're saying she's not one of theirs."

 _See? I told you!_

"What?" frowned Lestrade as he glanced to the dark-skinned woman.

"She's not in their system. There's no one going by her name. No records of her family or anything else either," explained Donovan before glancing to me.

"I'm not lying." I said bluntly.

"I find that hard to believe," frowned the woman as she crossed her arms. "For someone who was just kidnapped, you're awfully calm."

"Wow… I really like to see what the sensitivity training is like for you guys. Isn't that like the last thing you should say to a potentially traumatized hostage?" I commented.

"You don't look traumatized to me," scoffed the woman.

"Donovan," said Lestrade in warning.

"A fun fact you should know, those with mental issues strive harder to seem normal compared to most." I pointed out. "I'm just well-practiced in repressing and prioritizing. It doesn't mean I'm any less traumatized."

Both Lestrade and Donovan paused at my words with an expression I couldn't quite identify. It looked as though they're torn between thinking I'm crazy or a liar. Though, it's also quite possible it's both.

 _Because you're a crazy liar?_

Hilarious, where _do_ you get your jokes?

"In any case, what do we do with her?" asked Donovan. "If she's not one of theirs, the U.S is not going to take her back even if we deport her."

"Well…" sighed Lestrade as he scratched the back of his head. "I supposed she could apply for asylum for now and we'll work from there."

 _Insane asylum?_

Shut up.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade?" inquired a soft-spoken woman from behind Donovan.

"Yes?" frowned the salt and pepper-haired detective as Donovan stepped out of the way and turned to face the newcomer. "Oh, it's you."

You? I wondered before taking notice of the woman.

 _Oh, lucky stars! Mycroft sent Anthea to pick you up!_

Not sure if that's a good thing…

"Donovan, could you give us a moment?" asked Lestrade before the sergeant uncrossed her arms and stepped out, closing the door behind her as she went. An exasperated sigh escaped the man as he turned his attention back to Anthea. "He wants to talk to her doesn't he?"

The enigmatic woman answered simply with a smile.

"I supposed it'll make things easier if he took over," groused Lestrade as he pinched the bridge of his nose before turning to me with a rueful expression. "Hey, I know this is a bit weird and probably shady looking, but I promise, going with her will probably give you a better chance at dealing with this mess."

"Sure." I shrugged.

"If you're worried I could go with—" paused the detective when he processed what I said. "What? You're okay with it?"

"Yeah, that's what I said, no?" I cocked my head to the side.

"Erm…" hesitated the man as his brows furrowed deeper with worry. "They're not bad people, but… you really should be more concerned about going places with strangers in the future. Otherwise…"

"I'll be more careful." I noted.

"Well… I guess she's all yours now," said Lestrade to Anthea, but not before reaching into his pocket for his wallet and pulled out a business card. With the card against his wallet, he snatched up a pen and hurriedly scribbled down a set of numbers before handing it to me. "My mobile. Just to ease my mind, give me a call when you're done."

"…With what phone?" I asked in puzzlement.

 _Take the damn card and roll with it you idiot!_

"Erm…" started Lestrade uncertainly.

 _Look what you did! Fix it! Fix it now!_

Fine! Fine!

"Can I borrow your phone when we're done?" I turned to Anthea with an inquiry.

"That won't be a problem," agreed the woman.

Lestrade's shoulders visibly sank in relief at her confirmation. My short stay at Scotland Yard came to a close as I trailed after Anthea out of the building and into a non-descript black car. Though, with the shock blanket still on me, any semblance of inconspicuousness the car might have had, disappeared. Hmm… I ruin the mood wherever I go, don't I?

 _Why are you so proud of this fact?_

I'm cold and miserable. For all I know Mycroft told Anthea to drag me off to some drafty warehouse like he did with John as a scare tactic. I take whatever pleasure I could find.

 _You're kinda petty aren't ya?_

Don't pretend you weren't already aware of the fact.

"You are quite the enigma, Ms. Lin," spoke a clipped voice the moment I stepped into the car, a man with a severe receding hairline sat pointedly across from me.

 _Duuuuuude, it's Mycroft!_

"Hi." I greeted bluntly with a sharp, brief raise of my hand before plopping down in the seat.

"For someone who just got out of a hostage situation, you're rather flippant," noted Mycroft offhandedly.

"If there's a book on how to be a proper hostage, I'll make sure to read it for next time," I muttered under my breath as I wrapped the shock blanket tighter for warmth.

"Hmm… I'm not sure if you're aware, but you're in quite a bit of a situation," noted the man, his legs crossed and his hands folded neatly on top of his knee.

"The thing about how I'm not in the system?" I sighed. "There's not much I could do about that. It's not like I can pull out evidence out of thin air to prove I'm not lying."

"Quite," said the man curtly.

"…But you have something else in mind for me, don't you?" I stared at him cautiously. "What do you want me to do?"

"Why do you assume I want you to do anything?" replied the elder Holmes with a raised brow.

"Maybe it's the James Bond secret agent-esque vibe or the overly ostentatious British accent. Not sure which, they're a bit of a tie." I admitted.

"I wonder if your dismissive attitude is truly from acclimation as Sherlock claimed or if it's dissociative side-effect of your schizophrenia," noted Mycroft.

"Or maybe I'm just your typical American asshole." I offered, drawing a derisive chuckle from the man.

"I don't believe you're typical Ms. Lin," continued the man with a fake smile at his lips. "It's one thing for Moriarty to choose his victims at a whim, another thing entirely when his victims seemingly appear out of the blue without no history to be traced."

"And that makes me special?" I asked in bafflement.

"It makes you suspicious," corrected Mycroft.

"So… you think I'm a spy?" I asked with uncertainty.

"You'd make a poor spy," dismissed the man.

"Then… what?" I frowned in confusion.

"With your condition, you're far too conspicuous to be an effective spy. At best you're a distraction," commented the man.

"Um…thanks?" I replied awkwardly.

 _You have no clue how to respond do you?_

If you're so good at it, why don't you give it a try?

 _Do it yourself, I'm not the one in control of the body._

You can have control of my body.

 _It doesn't work that way! You know this!_

Then shut up.

 _No, you shut up!_

Real mature.

 _More mature than you at least!_

"Hem," coughed Mycroft to draw my attention back to him once more.

"Sorry." I apologized sheepishly.

"As I was saying, you could be of use as a distraction," continued Mycroft.

"…For who?" I frowned in confusion.

 _Ooh! Ooh! I know! I know!_

"I must say, your first meeting has left quite an impression," commented Mycroft. "I've never seen Sherlock quite so ruffled."

…You got to be kidding me. It **cannot** be this convenient!

 _But it is! Hallelujah to deus ex machina!_

"Let me get this straight," I dropped my clutch on the shock blanket in favor of hunching over and resting my arms on my knees. "You want _me_ , a kidnapped victim, you know literally _nothing_ about to distract the guy, the kidnapper kidnapped me to distract? What about any of that makes sense?"

"I see you've only heard a fraction of what I said before you were lost in conversation with your voices," noted Mycroft.

"Please enlighten me to what I missed then," I groused.

"I'm certain you've heard the term keep your friends close and your enemies closer," commented Mycroft. "As there are little to no information on your person, it would be unwise for us to allow you to go free. However, keeping you locked away is a waste of resources. Since you've shown an aptitude in being a distraction, I'm willing to employ you to continue that role. Of course, on the off chance your kidnapper decides to return, you'll work as amply as bait if he's looking to kidnapping someone again."

"Nice to know I work well as a bait _and_ a distraction," I pointed out dryly.

"Long-term investments should have more than one applicable purpose," agreed Mycroft.

"You have an interesting concept of investment." I muttered and drew the shock blanket back onto my shoulders.

 _Quit looking the gift horse in the mouth and just say thank you already!_

"Opportunities come in many forms," continued Mycroft dismissively. "What one does with them is another matter altogether."

"Okay…" I eyed him oddly. "What do you have in mind for me as a distraction?"

"You're in need of accommodations, do you not?" asked Mycroft, though the question is rhetorical at best. "There is a place available, but you'll have to come to an agreement with the land lady on the matter of payment."

"…I thought you're employing me," I frowned.

"Accommodations not included," replied Mycroft, with the fake smile plastered over his face.

"Am I going to even get an advance on my paycheck so I can pay the landlady?" I asked.

His smile remained unchanging.

"…You remind me of my brother," I muttered darkly.

"Oh?" mused Mycroft.

"God damn trolls." I grumbled before sighing in exasperation. "Here's to hoping the landlady will take manual labor as payment until I actually get paid… How much are you paying me anyhow?"

 _You are possibly the most boring person to be placed in this type of scenario!_

Hey! I have to get my bases covered! Fun and games come after shelter and food!

 _Boo!_

It's called being functional!

 _You mean boring._

"I do believe it's pointless to discuss on the matter as you seem to be distracted with the voices in your head. A detail contract will be drafted for your perusal. Until then, do try your best not to get kidnapped again," said the man dryly.

"Noted," I answered with a roll of my eyes.

"Sir, we've arrived," announced Anthea as the car came to a stop.

"Good luck Ms. Lin," said Mycroft politely before Anthea exited the car and waited for me to follow suit.

"Back at you Mr. Holmes," I retorted brazenly as I scooted out of the car. As I slammed the door shut, I noticed the elder Holmes giving me a pointed look without the condescending fake smile on his face. Confused, I tilted my head and watched as the car drove off.

Did I say something weird?

 _Well… neither actually introduced yourself throughout the whole conversation._

Yeah, what about it?

 _How were you supposed to know to call him Mr. Holmes?_

…Shit.

"Ms. Lin?" called out Anthea a short distance behind me.

"Coming!" I scrambled to snap out of my internal conversation and turned my heel to hurry after her.

I paused, eyes widening at the sight of the red awning to the distinguished Speedy's Café and the undeniably familiar white and brown brick townhouse to its left. My mouth felt dry as I took in the gleaming 221 B plates and the slightly crooked knocker on the dark door. Despite all that's happened, I can't help the smile spreading across my face and the glee bubbling at my chest.

* * *

Author's notes: I sincerely hope whoever looking at my search history doesn't think I'm planning to kidnap someone overseas or commit fraud or something. I swear, it's all research for the story. Anyway, I realized I went five full chapters without actually mentioning the character's first name. Well, here's to the next chapter!


	7. SH06: Puzzles

**The Schizophrenic Housekeeper**

 **Chapter Six: Puzzles**

"For the last time John, I am not upset," sighed Sherlock in exasperation as they made their way back to 221B by cab after dinner.

Shortly after they left the last victim, John insisted they go out for dinner. Normally, Sherlock would dispute the dear doctor's attempts in forcing food down his throat while on a case. Digestion has an annoying habit of slowing down his thinking, but this time he obliged. Not because he felt guilty or apologetic for disappointing John and ruining the man's image of him. Sherlock could care less what people thought of him. The only thing that mattered was the game, the mystery.

John provided such a puzzle on acting so amiable and considerate after screaming at him barely an hour ago for his lack of empathy. From his experience, after upsetting someone to that degree, they usually stay away for him for at least a day if not more. Yet, John seems to be back into good spirits and dragging him to dinner of all things. Somehow, he's convinced Sherlock's sulking because of what the last victim said.

"Come on Sherlock," said John in amusement. "I know you're upset."

"Why would I be upset over something so mundane?" scoffed the detective with a roll of his eyes as the car came to a stop in front of their flat. "You've heard far more derogatory insults hurled at me before. What's different about this one?"

"True," John grinned as he dug out the correct amount to pay the cabby. "Scotland Yard does have quite a colorful selection of insults when it comes to you, but no one else ever called you slow."

"Very presumptuous of you John," muttered Sherlock as he hopped out of the cab, not bothering to wait for the shorter man before he strode to the door.

"How is that presumptuous? Who else calls you slow?" asked John in puzzlement as he hurriedly caught up with him.

"…Mycroft," scowled Sherlock as he took notice of the door knocker's position in its right place. He had left the knocker slightly crooked before they left earlier.

"Not surprising, sounds like something your brother would say," agreed John as Sherlock pushed the door open and stormed into the building.

"Clearly," muttered Sherlock before halting in front of the steps with narrowed eyes.

 _No light upstairs_

 _Mycroft's not here_

"Sherlock?" asked John in confusion when he made no move to go upstairs.

 _No sound coming from 221A_

 _Mrs. Hudson's not there_

 _Why?_

Sherlock's eyes drifted to the side hallway leading towards their landlady's flat before deciding to turn his heel and making his way towards 221A. However, before he managed more than five steps, he noticed light peeking through the frosted windows to the door of padlock was gone.

"It's open?" said John in puzzlement when he came close enough to see. "Is Mrs. Hudson downstairs?"

 _Possible, she does have the key_

 _Considering the shoes, so does the bomber_

 _Too conspicuous, goes against the bomber's MO_

 _No signs of struggle, not an intruder_

Without a word, Sherlock cracked the door open slowly as to not make a noise. There was someone else in the building and he doubted it was the owner from Speedy. Of all the places she could bring the man, 221C and its decrepit state was unlikely one of them. Not to mention, Mrs. Hudson was not so imprudent about her relationships.

 _Conclusion, she has a new tenant_

 _Strange of Mrs. Hudson to give a tour for flat-hunters at this hour_

 _Something's different about this one_

"It's a bit run down, but if you fix this up while you live here, I'll waive the first two months of rent until you get you get yourself back on your feet," offered the landlady, her voice barely reaching the top of the stairs from the room below.

 _Financially unstable, but handy in house repairs_

 _Hardly a strong defense_

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, he needed more information. He glanced to John briefly and the man reached into his inner pocket to pull out his gun at the ready. Without further discussion, Sherlock opened the door fully and made his way downstairs. At the sound of his steps, Mrs. Hudson stopped talking and peeked her head out from the other room.

"Oh Sherlock! You're back! Come greet the new tenant. She's a lovely girl," said Mrs. Hudson cheerily as she waved for him to come down. "Said you've met before."

"Did she?" noted Sherlock with a frown before a familiar figure, draped in an orange blanket, stepped behind Mrs. Hudson and raised her hand up stiffly as though she was in school waiting to be picked for an answer.

"Sup?" greeted the short woman in a nonchalant drawl.

"It's her!" said John in surprise at the top of the stairs as he tried to discreetly put away his gun. "The victim from the case!"

"It's me," agreed the woman with a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Hi, again."

"Sherlock, what is she doing here?" asked John in confusion.

Aside from the color returning to her previously chilled face and blue lips, nothing of note changed on her person. That in itself was telling.

"What happened at Scotland Yard?" asked Sherlock, his frown deepening as he glanced to the former victim. "The nerve of Mycroft dropping you off here. What does he think this place is?"

"How did you know something happened?" asked John curiously.

"John!" sighed Sherlock in exasperation before pointing to the woman. "She's an American, the moment Lestrade was done with her, she should've been handed back over to her countrymen. There's no reason for her to be here. Yet, _here_ she is. Ergo something happened and prevented her from going home."

"Yeah, but what does this have to do with your brother?" asked John in confusion.

" _Mycroft_ being his insufferable self, sees fit to stick his nose in because he thinks of her as a liability. He only dropped you here because he already has surveillance set up in the area. Correct me if I'm wrong," challenged Sherlock as he eyed the former victim.

"Sherlock," chastised Mrs. Hudson. "Don't you think the poor girl's gone through enough already?"

"Please," huffed Sherlock with a roll of his eyes. "If she hasn't cracked from being kidnapped and nearly dying, she's not going to break down crying now."

"You know I can just start crying to spite you," suggested the woman cheekily.

"But you won't," scoffed the detective.

"Touché," noted the woman.

"Now tell me, what happened," grounded out Sherlock.

"They can't find me in the system," she shrugged. "No identification or paperwork of any sort, anywhere. Your brother thinks my kidnapper wiped me from the system, probably for shits and giggles, but eh… what can I do?"

"And… that's enough for him to think of you as a liability and put you here?" asked John.

"No," sighed Sherlock in annoyance as his glare intensified. "Did he pay you to spy on me?"

"According to him I make a bad spy." She dismissed with a wave of her hand. "But he did say he'd hire me to be a distraction and potential bait. Not sure how, but considering who you are, breathing is probably enough to annoy you."

"Clearly," groused Sherlock before he paused in thought. His pinched brows relaxed and an amused grin crossed his lips.

"No," said the former victim sharply at Sherlock with a glare as if he was a misbehaving child. "Stop that."

"Stop what?" asked John as he glanced between the two of them in confusion.

"He's—" the woman paused. Her eyes glazed over unblinkingly, no doubt distracted by the voices in her head before she rapidly blinked her eyes from the dryness. "Never mind, he's just doing the 'I found something interesting' look. Harmless, I supposed."

"I am not!" snapped Sherlock, affronted by her words.

"Yes you are, dear," chuckled Mrs. Hudson as she gave his arm several playful pats. "Nice to see you getting along with the new tenant."

"You call this getting along?" said John, flabbergasted as he swung his finger back and forth at the two. "This?"

"Oh don't act so surprised. How many people do you know that could stay in the same room with Sherlock for more than ten minutes without wanting to punch him in the face?" said Mrs. Hudson merrily before reaching out to take both his and Sherlock by the arm and dragged them towards the stairs. "Now, why don't we let the nice girl get some rest?"

"Before we do that," interrupted Sherlock as he slipped out of Mrs. Hudson's hold and towered over the short woman with his hands behind his back. "Why were you haggling with Mrs. Hudson regarding rent, if Mycroft decided to put you on his payroll?"

"Technically not on his payroll yet," replied the woman with a shrug. "I'm on probation or something along those lines. Kind of stopped listening to him after five sentences, so I can't say I'm sure."

"Hmph, unsurprising," droned Sherlock as he took note of the woman's eyes losing focus. Her brows pinched in concentration, no doubt listening to the voices in her head before exasperation crossed her face.

"…Look," sighed the woman in reluctance as she focused her gaze back onto him. "We both know I am broke as f. I don't know if your brother will actually hire me and pay me to do whatever it is he thinks I can do. With my lack of paperwork, it's going to be a while before I find a place that's willing to pay me under the table. So… I don't know, maybe for a little while, I can be your housekeeper and the payment could be food or something."

"Strange choice in payment," noted Sherlock with a raised brow. "I'd imagine cash would be preferable for most people."

"You can pay me in cash if you like," shrugged the woman and waved her hand in an absentminded gesture. "Just thought it'd be easier on all our wallets if I cooked and we shared the food. It's cheaper to buy ingredients in bulk rather than take out and the bonus, it's healthier."

"How considerate," drawled Sherlock.

"Hey, I'm trying to give everyone a fair deal here," countered the short woman. "Just because you like to be an asshat to everyone you meet, doesn't necessarily mean they have to return the favor. If you don't want to make the deal just say so, no need to be a condescending prick about it."

"Except it's not your deal," refuted Sherlock, startling the shorter woman. "Everything about you up to this point showed glaring signs of conditioned docility. It makes no sense for you to suddenly act so brazenly. I noticed your eyes lost focus a moment ago, which meant you were no doubt conversing with the voice in your head. Therefore, this _deal_ is something it came up with, rather than you. I'm not inclined to trusting voices in other people's head."

"If it's any consolation, she likes you more than your brother and the kidnapper," offered the woman flippantly.

"Why?" frowned the detective.

"I dunno, why do people normally like you?" asked the woman.

"They don't," disputed Sherlock.

"Not including the voice in my head, I seen five people who likes you in short time I've known you," reasoned the woman. "And all of them seem likely to kick my ass if I did anything to you."

"Who?" frowned Sherlock before John rolled his eyes and pulled the taller man back by the arm.

"We'll hire you," interrupted the doctor as he dug out his wallet and pulled out Sherlock's credit card.

"What? When did we agree to this?" demanded Sherlock in bafflement, but his protests were ignored as John handed her the card.

"…You're just going to give me his card?" said the woman in disbelief.

"Like you said so yourself, there are dangerous people worried about this idiot," said John with a tight humorless grin. "And you're going to need some basics to start with. I'm sure you know how to spend in moderation."

"…I'm not sure if you're threatening or trusting," said the woman in puzzlement, but accepted the card by clamping hand hands over it through the blanket.

"Obviously far too trusting," muttered Sherlock.

"You're one to talk," countered John with a snort and shot the taller man a challenging gaze.

"Get a room," grumbled the woman as she waved the card flimsily.

"W-what? We're not—" spluttered John as he went into his usual denial of the implications between their relationship.

"Don't care, just give me the name and address of the closest thrift store and grocer and you'll have it back by the end of the day tomorrow with a fully stocked fridge and pantry," dismissed the short woman. "Any food you like or dislike in particular."

"Dear, this honestly could wait until tomorrow," chided Mrs. Hudson tenderly as she rested a hand on her shoulder. "Why don't you come up and take a nice shower? You can sleep on my couch until you get a properly furnished."

"Sure, but before that, can I borrow a phone? Detective Lestrade made me promise to give him a call before the end of the night," offered the woman. "I was going to ask the woman that brought me here, but she left as soon as she introduced me to Mrs. Hudson."

"…Anthea," murmured John in a knowing nod. "Yeah, she does that."

"I've noticed. So… phone? Please?" asked the woman.

"Um… right, I have his number," said John as he fished out his phone.

While he did so, Sherlock used the moment to study John. By now, he's used to the man's caring nature. Yet, somehow the dear doctor still manage to surprise Sherlock again and again. At his conversation with the victim, John sounded almost…

 _Protective_

 _No,_ n _ot just protective_ —

 _Protective over_ … _me_

Sherlock blinked at the conclusion as he took in John's awkward neck scratching and curious head tilt when he noticed him looking.

"What?" asked John as he lowered his hand, oblivious Sherlock's observations.

Sherlock glanced back towards the victim still on the phone. Her brows knitted tight, he could see the amount of effort she expended in order to pay attention to Lestrade on the other end. There's nothing of importance he could gather off her person, so for now she's no longer a person of interest.

"I'll leave you to the domestics," said Sherlock absently before he turned his heel and made his way back up the steps. No point in wasting any more time on her when there were still two pips left with the bomber.

* * *

Author's Notes: Um… I was binging 12 seasons of Supernatural… and then started time-lining Supernatural and Sherlock to see if a crossover could be done reasonably. Turns out the best time to do so is the end of Season 4 of Sherlock and between season 12 and 13 of Supernatural. Debating should it be its own story or make it into a sequel for this one when the story's over. Food for thought. Thanks for reading!


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